


Pokemon: Blizzard

by aparticularbandit



Series: Our Courage Will Pull Us Through [2]
Category: Jane the Virgin (TV), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Genre: F/F, Gen, as opposed to luisa's, battles are gruesome, because this has shades of nuzlocke to it, however, it's not pretty so please know that going in, pokemon au part two, pokemon can die, this one is much more straight-forward as a pokemon au i think, woo-hoo?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 01:13:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16713730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aparticularbandit/pseuds/aparticularbandit
Summary: In which we consider how Clara's life would be different if she lived in a world with Pokemon in it.





	Pokemon: Blizzard

Clara tosses the scuffed luxury ball in her hand then catches it, repeating the motion the way one might with a baseball.  Her fingers grip tight on the mixed steel and plastic device as she stands in front of the poke ball shaped platform.  No matter how many times she’s had to use one in this cathedral, the rising motion still makes her nervous, _nauseous_ , just as the teleporters have.  Her teeth grit together as she pushes the ball into the fifth slot for her team then steps forward onto the platform.

The room it takes her too is full of lace and curtains and light so bright that it’s blinding.  It sparkles off the white dress the woman in front of her is wearing, their _champion_ , who stares at her with a mixture of horror and disgust.  There is blood caked under Clara’s chewed fingernails, spattered across her tank-top and tight blue shorts, only distinguishable from the freckles on her skin by its darker shade, the splatter the same shade as the crinkled hair she’d pulled back into a ponytail so long ago when she first arrived in Lumiose City, topped with her signature hat, which was covered with much older blood stains.

“There is no hope for you here,” Diantha, the champion, dares to say.  She stands her ground on the other side of the room, fingers clenched so tight her knuckles turn white while she struggles not to let herself shake.

Clara’s lips just pull up on one edge, turning into a smug grin, as her brows raise.  “I beat the others.  You _have_ to battle me now, don’t ya?  That _is_ how this works, ain’t it?  And then _I’m_ the new champion.”

“You’re only the champion if you want to be _and_ if I step down from my role.”  Diantha takes a hesitant step forward, one heel clicking on the stone floor.  “There were many before you have beaten me but refused the job.”

“Yeah, well,” Clara rubs the back of one black fingerless-gloved hand against her nose, shaking it once before spitting on the glass design embedded in the floor, “they were all idiots.  ‘Sides, your _establishment_ needs some work.”  Her bright blue eyes glance about the large room, taking everything in.  The stone walls make it cold, even with the light filtering through the stained glass windows and the floor beneath their feet sparkling with bright shades of purple, gold, black, blue, and white.  She takes the poke ball out of the first slot for her team and tosses it between her hands.  “We gonna battle, or what?”

“You cutthroat little—“

“—and here I thought champions weren’t _allowed_ to speak like that,” Clara interrupts with a grin before pressing the button on the center of her poke ball.  When it opens, the Talonflame that dwells within it is revealed, squawking once.  “C’mon, Spitfire.  Let’s wipe the floor with her skinny little ass.”

* * *

 

Clara didn’t remember very much of her mother.  She remembered warmth, bright red crinkled hair like her own with fair skin just as covered in freckles, the scent of lavender mixed with strawberries and the faintest hint of flour that she could often see scattered among the strands of her hair, laughter that brought golden honey tones into her deep cinnamon and chocolate eyes; she remembered brushing their noses together and the way the woman called the freckles scattered across her cheeks _angel dust_ and when their lashes brushed one another’s cheeks she called them _angel kisses_ and when a tiny Clara grabbed the golden rose hanging from a chain on her neck, she would press a gentle kiss to her chubby little fingers, one at a time, then nip at them until Clara giggled at the soft touch, pressing both hands to her mother’s cheeks.

Truth be told, she didn’t even remember _that_ much, but as she sat on the river’s edge, her bare feet kicking into the cold water with her shoes cast off somewhere beside her, she _thought_ she could.  Clara tossed a bright red apple back and forth between her hands, not thinking about where it’s going but catching it all the same, bright blue eyes staring intently into the bubbling river, even though they were unfocused, struggling to remember.  Her mother hadn’t been gone that long.  She remembered the tone of her voice, she thought.  Sometimes it’s the one calling her name in her dreams, the one she imagined when she was curled up in bed and listening to the muffled sobs of her father next door.

If she looked at her reflection, she would see the black and purple bruise surrounding her right eye, but the Goldeen were jumping that day, breaking up the surface.  If anything, she’d be more likely to focus on the tiny Poliwags hidden in the little clumps near the banks, swimming and swimming and waiting to gain enough experience to grow legs and make it out into the real world.  But she’d never been much into water-types.  They fled whenever she stuck her feet into the water avoiding any sort of human interaction, although the Surskit skittered across the top, occasionally tapping their long, thin legs on her freckles and chittering in what she thought might be laughter before they continued on their way.

But she _wasn’t_ focused.  She was trying to remember, to draw images of her mother through the fog of past years, and it’s only the moment that the apple didn’t land in her other hand that shook her out of her reverie, drew her up to pay attention to something other than herself.  It rolled over to the bushes, and she rolled away from the river, crawled over to it so that she can pick it up and return to her previous actions, but as soon as her hand reached out, it tapped the nose of a black pokemon she’d never seen before, one with eyes the color of her hair and markings the color of her eyes, as if its paws and the tip of the bunch of fur at the top of its head had been stained with sky.

A normal wild pokemon would skitter away from her touch, leaving the apple behind, but this one patted the ground in front of it with its front two paws, and bared its fangs at her in an attempt at scaring her before biting down into the apple and scampering backward.

“ _Hey!_ ” Clara said, her shock giving way to annoyance, eyes narrowing, and she sprinted forward, chasing the little thing.  She was human, so her legs were longer, and she caught up to it quickly enough, jumping on its back and pinning it down to the ground.  “That’s _mine_!”

Not that she particularly needed it, of course.  She could steal another one easily enough, if she wanted.  Sometimes she thought the farmers already knew she was coming and left fruit out for her because they knew she’d try to steal it anyway, but that wasn’t the point.  The _point_ was that it was _hers_ , not this little scamp’s!

The pokemon grumbled beneath her, and the apple popped out of its mouth.  Clara grabbed it, triumphant, and then drew back off of the little thing, making a waving motion with her hand. “Hah!  Beat you.  Now ya can go steal from som’un else.”

But the little black pokemon didn’t go any further, instead curled up just next to her, small tail curling about it, crimson eyes focused on her and the apple in her right hand.  It’s just as scrawny as she was – more so, if she was really honest with herself – bone thin and covered with nicks, its fur matted together in clumps like her hair sometimes did.  Anyone else would feel _bad_ for the poor creature and let it have the apple because it _obviously_ needed the food more than she did.

But Clara couldn’t care less about any of that.  What she _did_ care about was the new tooth marks breaking the flesh of her apple.  Her thumb ran over the punctured surface, broken nail getting caught in the skin, and she scowled.  “ _Useless._ ”  She glanced to the pokemon and then back to the apple and then, finally, with a huge sigh, threw her fruit at it.  “Fine.  I dun wan’ it anyway.”

The pokemon caught it in its mouth then lay back down, taking the apple in its front paws and dunking it into the river so as to wash it off.  Before it brought it back to devour it, its crimson eyes glanced back up at Clara, as though checking to make sure that she wasn’t going to attack it again.  But she just sat cross-legged next to it, leaning her head on one hand and her elbow onto one knee, tapping her fingers against her cheek as she watch it.  With this apparent ignorance, the pokemon was content, and it bit into the apple with a happy sigh.

If pokemon even _could_ sigh.

Clara continued to watch the pokemon laying down next to her with her apple slowly being eaten and shook her head.  “Ya gotta get better at stealing food than that if ya wanna gain any weight.”  She leaned back on the palms of her hands and let her gaze shift to the clouds above her.  “I could probably teach ya some things, if ya want.”

The pokemon’s head popped up from its apple, crimson eyes trying to determine if she was lying or not.  “Zor.”

“Ya gotta meet me here.  Tomorrow, ok?  And then you gotta watch what I do.”

“Zor,” the pokemon said, nodding its head once.

* * *

 

True to its word, the tiny little fuzzy black pokemon sat at the riverbank waiting for Clara when she arrived after school the next day.  _After_ school was a bit of an exaggeration; the freckled redhead had decided that she was bored and skipped out of the last few classes, kicking off her shoes outside of her house as she ran past it, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her thin white shirt and making her way down to the riverbank.  She saw the pokemon before it saw her, and she bent down on her hands and knees, creeping closer until she was just behind it.  Then she _sprang_ , arms outstretched like a Beartic, and gave a huge rumbling growl as she slammed down on top of it.

“Zor!” it exclaimed, trying to squirm out from underneath her.  “Zor zor!”

Clara let out a roar of laughter as she rolled off of it, holding her hands across her stomach.  “You were so scared!”

“A zor a ua zo.”

“You were _so_.”  Clara rolled back onto her stomach, sticking her tongue out at the little thing.  Her bright blue eyes met its wild crimson ones, and she grinned, biting her lower lip with her two loose front teeth.  “So, if I’m gonna teach ya how to steal better, I _gotta_ have a name for ya.”  She leaned forward, trying to boop her nose against the pokemon’s tiny little one, but the pokemon just scooted back out of her way.

“Zorua,” it said, lifting one blue tipped paw and patting it at the center of its chest.  “ _Zorua._ ”

Clara just looked at it and blinked twice.  “Zorua.”

The Zorua nodded once, emphatically.

“Nah, I’m gonna call you Artie.”  Clara sat up, brushing the dust off of her white shirt, which was already so dirt-stained it didn’t really matter.  “Short for _Artemis_.  We’ve been listening to stories about her in class, and she seems cool.”  Her lips pressed together as she glanced over the little creature.  “Not sure if it really _fits_ you, but if you got a human name, they’ll think I’m talking to a _person_ and not to a, well, a _you_ sort of thing.”

Then Clara stood up, popped her hands onto her hips, and leaned forward, grin bright on her face.  “So, Artie, ya ready to learn how to pilfer from the best _with_ the best?”

“Zor!”

“Good!”  Clara let out a little giggle at her Zorua’s emphatic, incessant nature.  Of _course_ it’d want to learn from the best!  It was _starving_ , wasn’t it?  And she _needed_ a good partner in crime.  There were some escapades that she wanted to pull off that she absolutely had to have a second person for.  As a distraction.  And then they’d _both_ get a bunch more out of it than either of them would get on their own.

 _Not_ that she would tell Artie that right now.  Let it figure that out later.  When she told it.  When it wasn’t so scrawny and was good enough to be able to get enough food to feed itself without her help.

No use in having a partner who couldn’t do anything worthwhile, after all.  This little creature was going to have to prove itself.

* * *

 

Spitfire takes to the sky as Diantha releases her Hawlucha.  _No name._   Clara takes note of that, the same way she’s noted how each of the other gym leaders and their trainers have typically left their pokemon unnamed.  She wonders if the trainers were like that before they went to the gym or if that’s something their leaders have trained them into – don’t name your pokemon, don’t get that attached, they could be hurt just as much as anyone else, they can die, and if you’re that attached, it hurts _more_.

Clara isn’t any better herself.  Her pokemon have names, sure, which perhaps sets her apart from so many of the others who have made it this far, but she has made sure to only train a select few, to not catch any more than the ones she keeps on hand.  There’s no point.  They’ll just get thrown into a computer system where they could be left to rot, unused, just because she wanted to complete some stupid little encyclopedia.  She doesn’t need _every_ mon.  She just needs a team who will do what she needs it to do.

Her Talonflame is well-trained.  She doesn’t even have to tell him what to do.

Spitfire sets up a tailwind as Diantha’s Hawlucha comes out and lands on its feet, swords dancing in the air briefly around it.  But its attack won’t matter while Spitfire’s speed is up.  He can easily avoid its jabs while it stays on the ground, and eventually the fighting bird takes to the sky as well, a little more wobbly, a little more uncertain, as though its very wings have been clipped.  But it’s nothing of the sort; Hawlucha is simply not a sky bird in the same way that so many of the other flying-type pokemon are.  It chases after Talonflame, slowly, claws covered with dripping poison and jabbing as though to catch him, but Spitfire evades it, literally spitting fire at the other creature.

Clara doesn’t need to watch the battle.  She knows Spitfire.  She knows he will win.  They have trained for this, the two of them, hours upon hours, days into weeks into months into _years_.  Maybe not to fight the _champion_ necessarily, but to fight at all and to win with the least amount of harm to self and the _needed_ amount of harm to the opponent.

It is, instead, much more fun for her to watch Diantha’s face fall as Spitfire’s flame catches the tips of her Hawlucha’s wings, _rise_ as Spitfire allows it to capture the faintest edge of its claws, only to turn white as her Hawlucha lets go, shaking its clawed hand, which remains a bright, _bright_ red, a color which slowly begins spreading up its feathers.

Burned, on fire, the Hawlucha struggles to stay in the air.

This should be enough.

But gym leaders, trainers, don’t let their pokemon stop when they _should_ let them stop.  There is no such thing as _enough_.  They fight until they are knocked out, until they are unable to move, until—

Well.

She will see how far Diantha is willing to go.

* * *

 

“You can’t _have_ him,” Clara spat out, eyes narrowing into a glare.

“ _Zor_ ,” Artie corrected, voice soft.

“— _her_.”

Clara stood in front of the little blue-marked Zorua, her arms outstretched.  She scowled.  “You can’t have _her_.”

“And why not?”

The little boy across from her glared back at her, trying to peek around her freckle-covered legs.  “She’s _wild_ , in’t she?  She don’t _belong_ to you.  She don’t got no ball.”

“If she _wanted_ a ball, she could’a had one, but she _don’t_ want a ball, and she don’t want _you_ , do ya, Artie?”

“ _Zor_ ,” the little Zorua said, shaking its head, crimson eyes flashing with murderous intent.

“You even _named_ it?”  The little boy shook his head, incredulous.  “Look, you can’t just block my balls.  That’s not fair!”

“Can so.”

“If they hit you, they’ll try to catch _you_ jus’ like _you’re_ a mon!”

Clara scowled and shook her head.  Boys and their _lies_.  “Doubt it.”

“But it _will_!”

“Nah, they got ways of keepin’ ‘em from working on _humans_.  They only work on _mons_!”

The boy just shook his head once more, turned his blue hat around backwards, and then tried to throw a ball, aiming it around Clara’s legs.  But she’d been _good_ at sports, even if the boys hadn’t really wanted to play with a girl like her, and she whacked the ball with her hand before it got close.  It bounced back to the boy, who picked it up off the ground and dusted it off before trying – and failing – again.

“It’s a _shiny_ , man!  Why don’t you just lemme get it?”

“She don’t _want_ to be got!” Clara said again, not quite repeating herself, but giving that impression anyway.  “I could’a had her _loads_ of times, but at least I ‘spect her ‘nuff not to try and catch her.”

“Wild pokemon are _supposed_ to be caught,” the boy said, one hand on his hips.  “Don’t matter what they _want_ or not.”  He huffed.  “Besides, _all_ wild pokemon wanna be caught ‘cause they wanna be trained.  Ain’t that right?”

“Not _everyone_ wants ta be trained.”

Clara’s voice was young, childish, even though she wouldn’t call it that.  It squeaked as she shouted at him, cracking under the weight of her conviction.  “And it’s not like she attacked _you_.  You attacked _her_.  If she wanted you to catch her, she’d’a gone after you herself.  But she din’t.  She was with me, and _you_ thought you’d take her!”

“Not like _you_ got her!”

“She’s my friend!”

The Zorua bit at the edge of her dirty white shirt, tugging at it.

“You _don’t_ want _him_ , do ya?”

“Rua.”

“You want _me_ , right?”

Clara’s voice was hushed, and the Zorua’s crimson eyes flicked from the boy across from them then back to Clara.  “Zor.”

“You don’ _have_ to want me.  I’d release ya.  But I gotta ball right here.  You just gotta stay in it until he leaves.”

The boy threw another ball, and Clara knocked it out of the way again.

“Zor.  Zor ua rua zor ua.  Rua zor zorua.”

Clara pulled a black ball with gold lining out of her back pocket then held it up so the boy could see it in her hand.  “This ‘n’s _mine_ got it?”

“Aw, man, you ain’t gonna steal my mon—“

“ _She ain’t your mon!_ ”

And with that, Clara pressed the button in the center of her ball and tapped it gentle on the top of her Zorua’s head.  The ball pulled the pokemon into it and twitched once or twice before finally settling.  Then she bent down and picked the luxury ball up, lips curving into a smug grin.  “See?  She wanted _me_ , not _you_.  Now _get the fuck away from me and my mon._ ”

* * *

 

Clara sat next to the riverbank, dangling her skinny, freckle-covered legs into the river, feet bare in the cold water.  An apple was pressed between her lips, held in place by her front teeth, _newly grown in_ (one had been lost to an apple a while ago, gotten stuck and bled all over it, made the apple taste _nasty_ , but she’d ate it anyway.  There were no tooth fairies in Clara Ruvelle’s home.  She spat her teeth into the river).  Then she pulled the ball out of her pocket and pressed the button in its still shiny center.

The shiny Zorua popped out, and she handed her an apple of her own.

“Ya don’t gotta stay with me if ya don’t wanna.  You can stay out of the ball.  I’ll throw it away or something.  But here’s this ‘cause I don’t think staying in that ball looks like _any_ fun and I _like_ sharin’ food with ya and here you can have this one.”

Artie took the apple out of Clara’s outstretched hand and started devouring the apple, but as soon as she moved to throw its empty luxury ball into the river, it placed one of its little paws on her arm.  “Zor.”

“What?”  Clara paused with the ball still in her hand.  “You dun wanna?”  Her lips pressed together, brows furrowed.  “I thought ya wanted your freedom!  Like me!”

But Artie just scowled and shook her head, then shook her whole body, until it seemed like she’d been hit by a thundershock, with her fur standing on end like it’s infused with static.  She took the apple and curled up in Clara’s lap like a cat might, resting her head on her paws before biting into the apple again, each sharp little tooth pricking its way into its fruit and avoiding its center, where the seeds lay.

“You wanna stay with me?”

“Rua.”

“Just not in the ball.”

“Rua.”

“I dun think you can stay in the house without bein’ in a ball,” Clara said hesitantly, crossing her arms, her own apple long eaten.  She tossed the core into the river, watching as the Goldeen swarmed it and carried it downstream.

“Ua zorua.”

Clara frowned to herself.  “I guess that could work.”  She brushed one hand through the Zorua’s black fur, broken nails scratching through to its skin.  “You should probably take a bath first.  Ya stink.”

“Rua zor zorua.”

“ _Hey!_ ”  Clara pushed the Zorua out of her lap and into the river, brushing hands together as though dusting them off.  “That’s not a good way to talk to someone who saved your life and all!”

Artie’s head popped above the waves for a second as she paddled her paws at the water, desperately trying to stay afloat, and her crimson eyes widened as, within that same second, she started to sink beneath the waves.

“ _You can’t swim, fuck._ ”

And Clara dove into the river, passing the apple core she’d only just thrown in, and grabbed Artie.  She clung to her, digging her sharp little claws into Clara’s shoulders, as she swam back to the riverbank, making sure she made it up over the edge before clambering out herself.  “There,” she spat, shaking her head.  “Saved ya _twice_.  In one day.”

“Rua zor zorua.”

“Shaddup.  I thought you could swim.  How can’t you swim?  I thought _everyone_ could swim.”

At her words, Artie just started to snicker with its eyes shut tight, and Clara realized—

“YOU JUST WANTED TO GET ME WET.”

And with her words, Artie began to snicker harder, even as Clara pummeled it with one fist.

* * *

 

Artie didn’t last long in the Ruvelle household without being seen.  In fact, Elena found her that very night, out of her ball and curled up on the end of Clara’s bed.  The light from outside of Clara’s room filtered in through the crack in her door, bright across her eyes, and she groggily held a hand up to protect them from the light, then sat up straight, sudden, when she caught sight of her stepmother.  Her gaze moved to Artie and then back again, and she pressed the button in the center of Artie’s luxury ball, pulling her back within it, as though that would keep her from being seen.

Elena stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her, and flicked the light on overhead before sitting on the edge of the bed where Artie had previously been curled up.  Her hand brushed along the comforter, picking up any strands of small black fur the Zorua had left behind, and she smiled, a small, sure thing.

“Still warm.”

Clara pulled her legs up and away from the other woman then pushed her pillows up against her headboard so that she could sit up with her arms wrapped around her legs, holding them to her.  She watched the other woman, quite literally biting her tongue.  _Whaddya want?_ was the first thing to spring to her lips, but she knew better than to ask, than to even admit to saying anything before her stepmother started in on whatever it was she was going to say.

“Where did you get her?”

“Get who?”

Elena didn’t look up, still brushing her fingers along the spot where Artie had been curled up.  “Don’t make me ask again, Clara.”

Clara pulled her little legs closer against her chest.  “Found her.”  Any other child resting their head on the top of their knees might look down or away, ashamed of their actions, but little Clara kept her eyes focused on the other woman, refusing to admit any such weakness.

“And the ball?”

“Bought it.”

“With what money?”

“ _My_ money.  I got money.”

This _was_ true.  Clara _did_ have money.  Mostly little bits and pieces that kids from school paid her to get her to leave them alone, particularly to keep from putting her used gum in the bottom of their chairs, among other small things.  But she hadn’t _bought_ the ball.  She’d stolen it, thinking it looked particularly pretty in comparison to the other Poke balls she’d seen, even though she wasn’t a trainer and wasn’t supposed to be catching any Pokemon in the first place.

“How long have you had her?”

“Not long,” Clara admitted.  She actually didn’t consider herself to _have_ Artie _now_.  Artie just decided to stay with her instead of someone else, probably because she’d fed her for so long.  Stupid Pokemon didn’t even think it could take care of itself.  Made her wonder what went on inside those little balls.  Was there food?  Was it better in there?  Probably warmer than it would be outside during the winter, although Artie had fur, so it was probably easier for her than it would be for Clara when she wanted to escape and be somewhere other than her house.

“And when were you planning on telling me?”

“Wasn’t.”

“Ah.”  Elena drew the one syllable word out much longer than Clara believed any normal human would, and at the end of the word, she glanced up, her dark eyes meeting Clara’s own.  “What were you afraid I would do, Clara?”

“ _Wasn’t_.”  Clara’s eyes narrowed as she spat the word out immediately.  “Wasn’t scared of you at all.  Artie’s _mine_ , and—“

“Artie?”

Clara snapped her mouth shut, taking a deep breath, eyes shooting tiny daggers at the other woman.  She wished her eyes could _actually_ do that instead of it just being an expression.  Like, seriously, how cool would that be?  Eyes that shot daggers.  That would be so useful!  But no.  Just another expression.

Elena smiled.

“You know, I was hoping to get you a Pokemon of your own for your birthday this year.”

_Liar._

“But, since you seem to have gone and gotten your own, I have something else in mind.  Something I think you might like.”

But Clara didn’t bite.  She knew that tactic, and she knew it was even _worse_ when her wicked stepmother tried to use it.  (Sometimes she liked to think like that – herself as a princess like Leia and Elena as the stereotypical evil stepmother.  Probably like the one in _Snow White_ , who was so obsessed with her beauty that she transformed herself into an ugly old with to kill her princess stepdaughter.  Not that Clara thought of herself as Snow White.  She was _way_ more active than that.  Leia was so much cooler.)

When Clara didn’t say anything, Elena’s eyes shifted back to Clara’s comforter, one finger returning to making circling motions on the thin fabric.  “I think, since you’ve been able to catch a Pokemon all on your own without any help, that you should go to Kalos and take part in their Pokemon League Challenge.”

Elena didn’t even have to look up to see how her stepdaughter would respond.  Clara’s excitement, unspoken, was palpable.  She almost _vibrated_ with it.  And this time, _this time_ , Clara took the bait.  “You…you _mean it_?”

“Of course, I do.”  Elena looked up, meeting her stepdaughter’s blue eyes again with a soft, warm smile…or, at least, as warm as anything Clara had ever seen from her stepmother.  “I wanted to wait a little bit and see how well you did with the Pokemon you were gifted, but since you have gone above and beyond, you’ve shown that you are far more capable at this than I thought you would be for your age.  It’s astonishing.”

Clara let go of her legs as she began to lean forward, then she stopped herself.  She didn’t want to seem too eager.  That sort of thing would normally cause her stepmother to change her mind, and this was something she wanted so much more than anything she’d ever wanted before, something she hadn’t even _known_ to want, something she was certain her own mother likely wouldn’t have let her do.  They hadn’t even really had Pokemon in the house, not before Elena and her Persian arrived.  Her father kept his work partners at work, and her mother….

She didn’t remember much of her mother.  She remembered she loved her.  She remembered that she was warm and had a voice like smooth honey, like liquid gold.  She remembered that she told her stories of princesses and princes, of evil stepmothers and overcoming all obstacles, and maybe going on the Pokemon League Challenge would be kind of like being a _real_ princess, one who was trying to reclaim her kingdom from evil usurpers.  Not that champions were _evil_.  They weren’t.  But, still.

“I would have to talk with your father about it, but I think he’d be willing to listen to me.  If that’s something _you’re_ interested in, of course.”

“Of course it is!  I’d love to go!  I’d—“

And Clara snapped her mouth shut once more, scooting back in her bed, pressed against the pillows against her headboard, face so white that her freckles looked like dirt on her skin.  She seemed too eager.  Elena was going to change her mind.  She just knew it.  She just _knew_.  And she didn’t want her to change her mind.  So she looked to one side and began to mimic her stepmother’s finger swirling motion and said, finally, “I mean.  I’d _like_ to go, but it’s not _that_ important, so if I can’t, I get it, if you can’t get him to let me go.”

She hoped that last bit worked better than the rest of it did.  Clara knew well enough that her stepmother didn’t like to be thought of as less than her husband, not by anyone, and especially not by her stepdaughter.  It would give her away to look up now and watch the other woman’s reaction, but the longing was there.  She wanted to see the slight widening in the whites of Elena’s eyes, wanted to see the way her smile would freeze in place, wanted to see the slightest tightening of her jaw.

But she didn’t have to see it.  She could hear it in Elena’s tone when she replied, “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

 

Diantha doesn’t call her Hawlucha back, doesn’t determine that it is well past the point of fighting, and instead desperately tries to keep it aloft.  Her hand lifts, wipes to the side in a thick motion, as though indicating that her Pokemon should finish something when it obviously doesn’t have the strength or the energy to do so.  But Hawlucha sees the motion and tries to pull itself together, tries to push forward to attack Spitfire.

It’s a waste.

But Spitfire stays in one place, wings flapping gently, as the Hawlucha speeds toward him.  If a bird could smile, this one certainly would, his beak open in a gently squawking cry as he lets Hawlucha forward, almost close enough for it to wrap its arms around him.  But just in time, Spitfire _moves_ , dodges just out of the way with a roll, and flies _above_ where the Hawlucha had been heading, digging his claws into its back.  The Hawlucha struggles against his grip, but at this point, it’s futile.

Spitfire whirls in the air, keeping a tight grip on the Hawlucha’s back, and dives down towards the stone floor.  The burn slowly spreads out from his claws across the other bird’s back, meeting where it has spread from its hand, almost engulfing the other bird in a scab-like red burn.  The Hawlucha looks across to its trainer as though in a cry for help before it is _slammed_ into the stone floor.  Spitfire flies away from the other bird’s crumpled body and lands on Clara’s shoulder, picking at the red feathers of his wings before closing them about him.

The dust clears around the Hawlucha, revealing the bird’s broken body.  Its beak is cracked across, its tip close to falling off, and blood, a deeper, darker red than the burn surrounding its body, drips from a large slash across one of its wings.  But Diantha doesn’t gasp, only lets her dark eyes scan for an x-shaped mark over each eye, making sure that her bird had completely fainted before calling it back to its Poke ball with a smooth click of a button.

_So it’s like this._

Clara doesn’t know what she expected from Kalos’s champion.  Maybe it was this after all, for her to be just as gruesome and hardened as any of the leaders and their trainers had been, willing to beat their Pokemon bloody in a desperate attempt to win these fights.  Well, Clara had trained with them, too, and she knows one thing that Diantha refuses to acknowledge.

She is **better** at it.

* * *

 

It didn’t take as long as Clara thought it would for Elena to convince her father to let her go to Kalos and take part in the Pokemon League Challenge.  She’d known that Elena _would_ convince him, but she’d thought it would be a matter of months, _weeks_ even.  But her father had been convinced in only a matter of days.  Maybe shorter.  Maybe he’d been convinced within hours of Elena propositioning it to her and Clara had only been able to learn of it later, after her father had figured out how to get her there, how to best provide for her journey.

Provision was not the first thing on her mind – not on Clara’s, and certainly not on Elena’s.

The whole ordeal took less than a month, and on her birthday, Clara rode with a travelling trainer on the back of his Charizard to Vaniville Town, where some famous trainer supposedly still lived with their mother, an equally famous Rhyhorn racer named Grace.  Something to do with saving all the Pokemon in the world from some great destruction.  Clara didn’t really _believe_ it.  To be quite honest, she thought it sounded like something one of the kids at school would make up to try and see if they could get her to believe it.  But, hey, if this trainer thought it was a real thing, then that was cool with her.  No skin off her back.  At least she had a free ride!

When they landed in Kalos, Clara hopped off of the Charizard’s back, her Zorua’s luxury ball popped into the first slot for her team, the other five empty until she caught more Pokemon.  She shifted the small bag on her back, bright eyes gazing around the little town.

“Hey, kid.”  The trainer brushed his black, fingerless-gloved hands against his jeans as he called his Charizard back to its Poke ball.  “You want to come see them, too?”

“Nah.”  Clara made a face, crinkling her nose as the wind blew back her currently untangled hair.  (Elena had demanded she get all the tangles out before she left, and with a little bit of help from her stepmother, she’d gotten all of them out without too much trouble.  A lot of biting her tongue to keep from yelling aloud about how much it _hurt_ , but with Artie curled up in her lap with her legs crisscrossed and her fingers curled around the edge of her wooden chair, she’d made it through.)  “I got a league to get started on, don’ I?”

The trainer just gave her one long look then shrugged as he walked away, clenching his hand into a fist and pounding it on the front door to the famous trainer and their mother’s house.

Clara turned her back to them as she scampered into the town, finding the one path out and starting down it, so she didn’t see the woman who left the house or the look of surprise on her face as she saw her, and she _certainly_ didn’t hear the whispered question of _“Is that your little sister?”_ that the woman directed towards the trainer whose Charizard had carried them both to Kalos.

She wasn’t _anyone’s_ sister.  And she and Artie were going to take down this _league_ thing!

So, bubbling over with excitement, Clara let her shiny Zorua partner out of her luxury ball and the two of them made their way down the first route into the greater region of Kalos.


End file.
